


Trust Issues

by Ornery Sauce (Photosyntheses)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Fassavoy, First Time, M/M, McBender, McFassy, Smut, love!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:37:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Photosyntheses/pseuds/Ornery%20Sauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik doesn't want to trust Charles. He doesn't trust people who have seen that much of him.  He doesn't want to trust Charles--but sometimes it seems like he's fighting a losing battle.  And losing feels so, so good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Issues

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless McFassy. Shameless not knowing real X-Men canon. Shameless fanfiction writing anyway. What can I say?
> 
> This fic is dedicated to Megan, who ought to be ashamed of herself, or at least ashamed of me.

He tries to pretend this isn't the first time he's done this. Like Charles can't hear it going through his head.

He doesn't trust Charles: one too many appropriately-timed remarks, one too many inappropriate ideas that come out of nowhere... Erik doesn't trust people who have seen that much of him.

That's why he finds himself on top, like he has to keep the bastard pinned. Like it's some sort of battle, Charles versus Erik instead of Erik versus his body, his damn body, his fuckdamn mind.

In Charles versus Erik, Erik can at least pretend he is winning. In Erik versus his mind, he's so far gone that the word 'losing' is beginning to sound sweet.

It’s just that losing feels so, so good. Hot ticklish, crushing, bursting. All the carefully-constructed reasons he's never done this before collapse into a wet tangle of nerve endings carving their needs out onto his brain stem. Losing feels like Charles' skin sliding with sweat, he doesn't know whose, like his arms propped on the bed on either side of Charles' back, like his own breath fighting to escape his stomach and his blood going up in flames.

And that's before he even starts moving.

Charles is breathing slowly beneath him, seemingly relaxed, like he's done this ever so many times before and knows exactly how it goes, might be a little bored, or maybe a little impatient. He begins to say something: "In case you're wondering, now's when you--"

Bastard. It isn't that difficult to figure out. Erik thrusts. Charles stops mid-sentence.

He tries to find a rhythm, tries to figure out how this is supposed to work, but then it's too late and he's just pressing himself into Charles as deep as he can, as hard as he can, because that's how Erik does things. All the way. No going back.

"Erik," Charles says, haltingly, but with a little half-cough half-laugh like he's amused by something, "It's alright, you don't have to worry about being quite so--" Bastard. Harder.

Charles chokes off his sentence, takes in a sharp breath, tries again. "Erik, you don't have to be quite--I mean, if you don't want to--that is--" The laugh is gone. Erik hears it when his breath catches. Harder.

The last sentence comes out hoarse and turns halfway through to a gasp, and Erik feels a savage sense of triumph—just try and read my mind now—

"Erik, you—I mean…oh, Erik—"

And Erik can feel Charles move with him, skin pressed against skin, the way his forearms tighten as he clutches the blankets with fists, the way his body tightens around him. Something like a growl comes ripping out of Erik's throat. He can't stop. Losing is somewhere in the distant past. He's lost. Completely lost.

"Erik." Charles is saying. Reduced to that single word, just his name, in syllables scraped out between clenched teeth. "Erik."

The triumph is gone. The anger is gone. Erik is gone, it's just sensation left over, coursing through the implosion that is his body, and beneath it a huge welling feeling that hurts the way it hurts to watch someone you love sob uncontrollably and know there is nothing you can do. A feeling that hurts the way relief hurts, the way hope hurts. Somewhere he can hear himself gasping, grinding his teeth, growling.

Erik comes to the edge of himself at some point, comes down to find himself in a puddle of muscles that is he and Charles slowly becoming something like two people again. Is this what it's like to read someone's mind, he wonders. To be inside someone so completely.

He is shivering. He realizes that his face is pressed into the soft, breathing flesh of Charles' shoulder; and that the hurt is coming up from his stomach and burning out his eyes. Erik closes his mouth slowly, gritting his teeth against the pathetic ooze of tears. He pulls himself off and out of Charles and hunches down on the bed. He feels like melting. No one is supposed to see him like this.

Charles is a serious man. He's always in control of himself. He's serious about his work, he's serious about his drink, he's serious about his jokes, dammit. His effortless, vain ability to see through every situation without ruffling a feather annoys Erik constantly—he’s spent his entire lifetime building up control only to have it all explode at the slightest touch.

Now, though, Erik hears the bedsprings creak as Charles rolls off his stomach to face him; feels his nearness, his nakedness somehow surprising even after all this; hears his voice, without any trace of smugness, as though he's forgotten that he can read minds at all:

"Are you alright? Erik?"

Wide-set, precise hands on his chin; Erik looks up into Charles' concerned face. Charles' hair is a damp and curly mess. His eyebrows are messed up. His skin is flushed and shining with perspiration. His lip is bleeding, and Erik doesn't ever remember biting him.

"Hey," Charles says, completely seriously, breathing out through his teeth. "Hey." And seems at a loss for what to say next.

It's the least in-control Erik has ever seen him.

The hurt in his chest pulses. He closes his eyes and leans his face into Charles' hand, swaying foreward until their foreheads touch, gathering against his sweat-damp hair. When he kisses him--a lingering brush of chapped lips, slow and shivery--he tastes blood.

Something about this unnerves him. The way the moment is humming about him. How much, even after all the Charles he’s just had, he desperately wants more. Erik gets up and goes to find his clothes before he can stop himself—before Charles has unfrozen from that position, eyes closed, lips parted to breathe.

There is no way in hell he is letting himself trust Charles. The more Charles sees—and feels—of him, the less he can trust him. But it’s a damn losing battle. He can’t help but turn to look at the bed while he’s pulling on his pants; Charles, still naked, is now sitting on its edge, feet crossed at the ankles, just watching him. When he sees Erik look back, he grins.

“At the moment,” he says, “I am finding it very difficult to believe that you’ve never slept with a man before.”

“Fuck you,” Erik says. Mind-reading bastard.

“That’s a compliment.”

Erik gives Charles his most level stare for a measured moment, then turns back to buttoning up his fly. How can he be so collected at a time like this? Was he imagining things, “hey,” that breathless searching look? What the fuck is wrong with him?

“Erik,” Charles says from behind him. “Is there something I can do? I know you’re upset about something.” His voice sounds closer than before. Erik buttons wordlessly, hands fumbling against his crotch, where everything still feels raw. “Let me in. I told you I would ask before, so I’m asking. I promise—”

“I don’t want you in my mind,” Erik snaps. Looks back over his shoulder. Why is Charles still naked? How can he wear that stupid concerned look without his nice suits and his college professionalism?

“I can help. Please.”

“I don’t need your help.”

He watches Charles’ face, the smear of blood drying on his lower lip as he breathes out, the frustrated tilt to his eyebrows, the raw earnesty in his blue eyes. _But I _want_ your help. I want it so much that if I ever got it, I think it would destroy me. Bastard, I want _you_ , self-righteous save-the-world complex and all._

“Okay,” says Charles. “Okay. Sorry.” And while Erik’s hands are still folded tight against his belly, he feels the soft muscle of bare arms wrap around his waist, and Charles is there holding him, warm and breathing. His head is just high enough under Erik’s that he can nuzzle his lips into the place where neck meets shoulder, resting his head against Erik’s comfortably. He’s still naked. It makes the gesture even more powerful, somehow.

Erik can feel himself relaxing moment by moment. No mindtouch; no Charles inside his head; just the feeling of a bare chest rising and falling behind him, another heartbeat thumping against his shoulderblade, the gentle insistence of those broad, precise hands on his diaphragm. The hurt inside throbs like an new wound all over again. No way in hell of winning now. No point in winning if you don’t want to win.

Erik closes his eyes. “I don’t trust you,” he says, sighing into the end of the sentence, biting back whatever he’s going to say next. He doesn’t know why he said it.

Charles nudges his nose a little more into Erik's cheek. He says, “I know.”

Losing, losing, losing. Lost.

**Author's Note:**

> Note to self: never writing a sex scene with a character whose name ends with 'S' ever again. Charles' this, Charles's that. Its sooo redundant. *sigh*
> 
> ...McFassy forever!


End file.
